by J. T. Edson
Ducking his head, Hoffinger butted into the man as he tried to remove the drum. At the same moment, Betty smashed her interlaced-fingered hands into his kidney region from behind. The impact bore the man backwards, despite Betty’s blow, and he went down with Hoffinger on top of him. Mouthing curses, the little dude flailed inexpertly at his victim. On the street, doors were flung open as people appeared to investigate the disturbance. Bursting out of the hotel’s barroom, Billy Jack and other members of Company ‘C’ swarmed forward. Still striking out wildly, Hoffinger felt himself gripped and dragged upright.
‘Ease off, Ossie!’ Billy Jack growled, clinging to the dude’s right arm. ‘We’ll tend to him.’
Slowly Hoffinger’s fighting rage died away. Looking around, he saw the man firmly held by Sergeant Weather and Sandy McGraw. Then the dude’s eyes turned to where Betty knelt at her cousin’s side.
‘Oh Lord!’ the black-haired girl was sobbing. ‘What have we done? What have we done?’
Everything was in confusion as people milled around and asked questions, or stared in bewilderment at what they saw. Billy Jack’s lackadaisical pose left him and for once he showed why he held the rank of sergeant major in the Texas Light Cavalry’s elite Company ‘C’.
‘Quiet it down!’ he roared. Then, as silence fell, he turned to Hoffinger and spoke in a gentler tone. What happened?’
‘I—I don’t know,’ the dude admitted, struggling to think and quieten his churned-up emotions. ‘The—I saw—the young ladies—knew she wasn’t Captain Fog—saw his gun—I shouted, but it was too late.’
Which left a lot unexplained, but helped Billy Jack to understand a little of what had happened. He knew Georgina to be a practical joker, which might account for why she was wearing Cap’n Dusty’s clothes. Seeing her lying there had given the sergeant major a hell of a shock. Now he realized that her disguise had, for some reason, brought tragic results.
The crowd opened up to let Dusty come through. Striding forward, expecting to find there had been a quarrel ending in gun-play between the participants, he slammed to a halt. For a moment he could hardly credit the message of his eyes. Then he moved forward, dropping to one knee at Betty’s side. One glance at Georgina told him that she was beyond help. Blood still spread slowly on the left breast of the borrowed tunic, but he had seen enough of wounds to know that she was dead.
‘What happened?’ Dusty asked and the listeners could hardly recognize his voice.
Twisting around, Betty flung herself into Dusty’s arms and sobbed a reply;
‘He—that man—asked Georgie—‘Are you Cap’n Dusty Fog?’—and when—when she said she was—she—he—be shot her.’
An ugly, menacing rumble rose from the crowd, directed at the man held by the non-coms. It died away as Dusty glared around. Then the small Texan looked at the prisoner and sucked in a deep breath.
‘He asked Georgie if she was me,’ Dusty said quietly, ‘and shot her when she said she was.’
‘Y-Yes,’ Betty gulped, shocked by his tone into momentarily forgetting her horror and grief.
‘Then it looks like he got the wrong one.’
Saying that, Dusty gently freed himself from Betty’s arms. Just as gently, he removed the gunbelt from Georgina’s body. In a silence that could almost be felt, he strapped on the belt and fastened the tips of the holsters to his thighs. Moving clear of the girls, he addressed his men.
‘Turn him loose and put a gun in his hand!’
‘Cap’n—!’ Billy Jack put in and he did not intend to continue with one of his usual unmeant doleful warnings or complaints.
‘Do it!’ Dusty snapped. ‘Or I’ll kill him where he stands!’ Billy Jack nodded to Sandy and Weather. As they released the man, the sergeant major took out his right hand Colt. Sobbing for breath, the man fell back against the hotel’s hitching rail. Slowly Billy Jack walked forward and thrust his Colt into the man’s right hand, then stepped aside.
‘All right, hombre,’ Dusty said. ‘You want to kill Dusty Fog. Well, I’m him. Get to doing it.’
Almost recovered from the effects of the combined attack, the man stared numbly at the big Texan. Everything about Dusty filled the man, hard as he was, with a gnawing terror. Cold merciless retribution as certain as the hangman’s noose showed on the young face. The powerful figure stood poised like a cougar waiting to spring, hands held out from its sides with fingers slightly crooked ready to close about the white handles of the holstered Colts. That was no man he faced, but a machine, a deadly highly-developed machine with just one purpose—to kill him.
‘N-No!’ the man croaked, finding himself unable to throw the gun away.
‘Count to three, Billy Jack,’ Dusty ordered—and it was an order, despite the cat’s purr gentle way he spoke. ‘By three, he’ll use that gun or die.’
‘One!’ Billy Jack said, for he could no more resist than the ashen-faced killer could toss aside the Colt. The rest of the crowd stood as if turned to stone, oblivious of the people who came from the big house, conscious only of the scene before them.
‘Two!’ Billy Jack counted.
‘No!’ a woman’s voice shouted. ‘Dusty. No!’
Face pallid and raging with emotion, Rose Greenhow ran along the street ahead of the party from the ball. She had heard from a Negro maid of the girl’s idea to impress her and planned to surprise the would-be spies on their arrival. Waiting with members of the guard to capture them, she had heard the shooting. On learning from where it originated, Rose had an almost clairvoyant idea of what had happened. Sending a man to notify Ole Devil of the trouble, she set off to look into it and prayed she might be wrong. All too soon she knew how right she had been. No humane considerations motivated her call to Dusty. The man cowering against the hitching rail could answer questions—but only if he stayed alive.
‘Three!’ Billy Jack said.
‘Captain Fog!’ Rose screamed in the same breath.
At the sergeant major’s word, Dusty’s right hand moved. All the long, hard hours of practicing his draw, backed by the carefully considered design and excellent workmanship of his gun-belt, permitted him to fetch out the long barreled Colt with blinding speed. He had never moved faster than at that moment. Out came the revolver, its hammer drawn back by his thumb and trigger going to the rear under the pressure of his forefinger as the seven-and-a-half inch ‘civilian pattern’ barrel vii turned towards its target. Straight as if pulled by a magnetic force, Dusty’s Colt lined at the man’s head.
And did not fire!
With the trigger depressed to the full and thumb quivering on the verge of freeing the hammer, reason returned to the small Texan. A concerted gasp rolled from the spectators. Letting out a moan, the man dropped Billy Jack’s revolver and turned to sob into his arms against the hitching rail.
‘Clear the street, all of you who aren’t involved!’ Dusty ordered, lowering the hammer and returning the Colt to its holster.
Like snow before a fire, the crowd melted away. There were at least two officers senior in rank to Dusty present, but they withdrew like the rest. By the time Billy Jack had retrieved his Colt and the man’s revolver, only the people directly concerned with the incident remained. Ole Devil arrived fast, accompanied by Colonel Mannen Blaze, Dusty’s father and others of the family.
‘What’s happened, Dustine?’ the general demanded while the women moved towards Betty and the body.
Slowly, fighting down her grief, Betty rose and faced the men to repeat in more detail the story she had told to Dusty. At its end, the Texan senior officers turned to Hoffinger.
‘My thanks, sir,’ Ole Devil said.
‘I—I was too late,’ the dude mumbled, seeming to have shrunk into himself and showing none of his usual urbane poise.
‘You saved Cousin Betty’s life,’ Dusty put in. ‘With your permission, Uncle Devil, I aim to let Trumpeter know that Mr. Hoffinger’s not a traitor—’
‘Trumpeter!’ croaked the killer, turning from the hitchin
g rail and drawing every eye his way. ‘It was Trumpeter who offered the reward to any man who could kill you, Cap’n Fog.’
‘What was that?’ Ole Devil barked, striding forward.
Rose and Dusty beat the general to the man and the small Texan said, ‘Tell it fast and all!’
‘It’s true!’ the man croaked, reaching inside his jacket. ‘I’ve got the letter he sent to—!’
‘Let him take it out!’ Ole Devil ordered as Sandy and Weather sprang on to the man and grabbed his arms. Taking the folded sheet of paper which the killer produced, he read it. ‘Well I’ll be damned!’
‘Look at it, Hondo!’ Colonel Blaze said, after receiving and studying the paper. ‘It’s damnable.’
Looking like a taller, older version of Dusty, Major Hondo Fog read the message. Without comment, he handed it to Rose.
‘To whom it may concern,’ Rose read aloud. ‘I, Horace Trumpeter, General Commanding the United States’ Army of Arkansas, will pay the sum of one thousand dollars with no questions asked, to any man who produces proof that he has killed the rebel and traitor who calls himself Captain Dusty Fog.’ She paused, then continued, ‘It’s signed by him and marked with his official seal. Who are you?’
‘Ike Smith,’ the man, to whom the question had been directed, answered. ‘I was one of Toby Mattison’s boys—’
‘A lousy border-jumper!’ Billy Jack ejaculated.
‘Who else knows about this letter?’ Rose demanded, ignoring the comment.
‘Nobody’s far’s I know. I saw Toby get it and when he didn’t tell us what it was I snuck it from him.’
‘Is there a big, gaunt Westerner in your gang?’ Rose asked. ‘He wears a large grey hat, buckskin shirt and trousers, cavalry boots. Rides a dun gelding and uses a Sharps rifle.’
‘Sounds like the feller in Stegner’s bunch, the one they call Rocky Mountains,’ Smith answered. ‘He allows to be a better’n fair shot with that rifle.’
‘And that’s why we didn’t find any identification!’ Rose said. ‘He was a guerilla trying to collect the bounty.’
‘I wondered if he might be one,’ Dusty confessed. ‘Only I knew no lousy guerilla’d come after any of us just to serve the North.’
‘The same thing occurred to me,’ Rose admitted. ‘But it seemed so unlikely—Why didn’t I speak. We could have been on guard—’
‘You weren’t to know,’ Ole Devil told her gently. ‘None of us could imagine a general of the United States Army would stoop to doing it.’
‘I should have realized!’ Rose insisted. ‘All along I’ve known Trumpeter was a rabid radical, the kind who’d break if he found himself under any strain. I ought to have guessed it was possible he’d hire men to kill Dusty.’
‘Nobody blames you, Rose,’ Hondo declared; then his face clouded. Before the War, he had fast been gaining a name as one of the most shrewd peace officers in Texas. During that time he had developed the habit of looking at any incident from all its angles. Doing the same on the Prescott street, he reached an ugly conclusion. ‘If Trumpeter sent those bounty notes to Mattison and Stegner, he’ll have passed them to the other guerilla bands.’
‘And it’s likely that they’ll be trying to claim the reward,’ Rose went on.
‘That’s how I see it,’ Dusty remarked in the same quiet voice with which he had ordered Billy Jack to arm Smith.
‘It’ll have to be stopped!’ Rose stated. ‘Grant wouldn’t allow it if he heard of Trumpeter’s actions.’
‘Grant’s a long ways off,’ Dusty pointed out. ‘Time we can get word to him, could be somebody else’ll have been killed in mistake for me. No ma’am, Rose. There’s only one man who can stop that bounty quick enough to do any good. The feller who’s offering it.’
‘Trumpeter!’ Rose gasped, staring at the small Texan as she began to understand what he meant.
‘Yes’m. And I’m fixing to give him a chance to earn his own bounty.’
‘He’d never cancel the offer!’ Ole Devil said, then realization struck him. ‘You mean that you’re going to face him down?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Dusty confirmed.
‘Not alone you won’t!’ Red Blaze declared. He had arrived with the others and listened to the conversation while comforting Georgina’s mother. ‘The whole Company, the whole regiment comes to that. ‘I’ll be with you.’
‘They won’t,’ Dusty contradicted. ‘Just me and four men’re going.’
‘Who’re the other three?’ Red wanted to know.
‘Billy Jack, Kiowa happen he’s back in time, Vern Hassle—’
‘I’ll volunteer, Capn’ Dusty,’ Sandy McGraw announced, beating Sergeant Weather to it by a split second.
‘You, Sandy,’ Dusty confirmed. ‘This’s no chore for a married man, Stormy. You’ll run the Company as acting sergeant major while we’re gone.’
‘Dusty, you can’t—!’ Rose protested.
‘Those bounty letters won’t be done with until one of us is dead,’ Dusty replied. ‘Already one innocent girl’s been killed because of them. There could be others. So I’m going to stop them.’
‘What’re we going to need, Cap’n Dusty?’ asked Billy Jack.
And then the sergeant major, Red and Sandy realized that permission for the mission to proceed had not been given. So they turned their eyes towards Ole Devil, As always, he thought first but came to a decision without a waste of time.
‘You think you can achieve something, Dustine?’
‘I’m going to try,’ Dusty stated. ‘I won’t take chances, sir. I want to get to Trumpeter too bad for that.’
‘What do you think, Hondo?’ asked the general. ‘He’s your son.’
‘And he’s set on going,’ Honda replied. ‘There’s no way, short of hog-tying him, that’ll stop him. And I know that, whatever he does, it’ll be thought out carefully, not rushed at blind.’
Which agreed with Ole Devil’s summation. He had already made up his mind, but had needed the extra seconds to steel himself for giving the permission that might send two of his nephews and three good soldiers to their death. The fact that they would go with or without authority provided him with some small consolation; and he knew that something must be done to stop the guerillas acting on the bounty offer.
‘Good luck, Dustine,’ he said. ‘If there’s anything you need, ask for it.’
‘Let me go with you, Dusty,’ Betty put in. ‘Please. Lord! I could have talked Cousin Georgie out of this foolishness, but I didn’t try. I’ll go mad if I don’t do something.’
Looking at Betty, Rose felt that she must speak. This was no naive girl filled with ideas of how glamorous a life she might have as a spy. Betty had matured, grown up, changed in the minutes since Georgina had died. While aware of how dangerous the mission would be, Rose felt that Betty deserved a place on it and might be of assistance.
‘Take her, Dusty,’ Rose begged. ‘I’d come with you, but I don’t ride well enough and would slow you down.’
Betty and Dusty faced each other, standing without speaking for several seconds. He knew that she would accept his refusal, but that things would never be the same between them again. So he nodded his head and said, ‘You can come.’
Chapter Sixteen – General Trumpeter, Meet Captain Dusty Fog
Patrolling outside the eastern wall of General Trumpeter’s residence was not a duty Private Sloan regarded with enthusiasm. Unlike on the other three sides, no gates pierced his part of the wall. So he could not stop and chat with the stationary sentries. The duty would have seemed less onerous if there had been any logical point on keeping watch that side. In addition to the ten-foot stone wall around the property, the nearest dwellings—a pair of smaller houses some fifty yards away—had been commandeered and were occupied with Union personnel. Anyways, who the hell among the Rebs would figure on sneaking in and killing old ‘Bugle-horn’ Trumpeter. Fact being, from the hash he had made of things since his arrival, the Confederate States Army ought to be real keen to leave
him in command.
Just about the only consolation Sloan could find came from his clothes. No longer did Zouave regiments wear fancy copies of frog-eating French uniforms, but dressed like honest-to-God American soldiers. He preferred even a forage cap to the Zouave fez. Over his infantry uniform, he wore an overcoat with a shorter cloak than that sported by cavalrymen. Around the coat was his well-polished cartridge-box belt, with leather sling, passing diagonally from the cartridge box on his right hip to the left shoulder, cap box, bayonet scabbard and canteen; although Sloan could not see the point of carrying the latter.
The sound of footsteps drew his attention to the gap between the adjacent houses. Bringing his rifle and bayonet to the required position—In case it was the officer-of-the-day making rounds, rather than expecting to need the weapons—he gave the prescribed challenge.
‘Halt. Who goes there?’
‘Now you-all don’t think lil ole me’s a Johnny Reb soldier, do you?’ answered a feminine voice.
Peering through the darkness, Sloan made out the figure of a girl coming towards him. Small, dainty, wearing a sleeveless white blouse and a skirt of glossy black material, she walked with an attractive hip-sway. Lowering his rifle, Sloan grinned. Every enlisted man knew that the officers entertained ladies—a very loose definition—in their quarters, regardless of Regulations. So he saw nothing suspicious about her presence.
‘Where you going, gal?’ Sloan demanded, figuring he had best not ask where she had been.
‘Home,’ she replied. ‘Don’t you-all tell me it’s not allowed.’
‘It’s after curfew,’ Sloan pointed out. ‘I’m supposed to holler for the sergeant of the guard.’
‘If you do, he’ll only take me off someplace and—scold me a lil,’ the girl purred. ‘Now a big, strong, handsome gentleman like you won’t let that happen to me, will you?’
